Long Pajama Poems
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171 E Swedesford Rd,
Unexpected positive experience
with regular totally tubular
gnarly patron first name Maureen
hmm... if only this burbling blurb
blog could somehow
be communicated - pro bono, cuz green
legal tender (mine) scarce -
anyway earlier
today December sixteenth
two thousand and nineteen
ah, my dog how serendipitously
I did germanely, modestly,
quintessentially shepherd convenient
rhyme with reason (hubble spontaneity)
three, five, eight, plus
this line thirteen...
(you get the idea, si?)
with eyes shut tight e'en
absentmindedly maneuvering "fake"
steering wheel, while zee queen
(think four foot eleven
spouse wearing spongebob
pajama pants) profusely thanked
police seeing eye dog approaching
and barking unforeseen
drove sitting on his haunches
on driver seat cop cruiser
smack dab nabbit
on our figurative docked toured tail
emulating crash test dummy
nearly didst almost careen
into our two thousand
and nine Hyundai Sonata
gave spouse faux paw high five
while flock of seagulls,
eagles, black crows...,
attired with red and green
holiday outfits suddenly appeared clean
(white hove out blizzard)
out of thin air nearly collided
with our self driving
automobile I amazingly
gratefully dodged tween
twenty plus miles north east
back to Schwenksville,
Pennsylvania, where this mean,
(once lean twice shy)
poetry (aye sup prose) writing machine,
now exuberant poet hoping
to garner (no bull lariat) keen
punny hush meant toward anybody
including trumpeting mujahedeen
hoot aches objection, which
courtesy self typing keyboard really
cool and groovy power
(smart thinkpad) reads my mind
pressing corresponding key visible
on Lenovo external large screen.
I can do it tomorrow, I think, feeling good in my pajamas.
Isn’t this Monday? My husband asks.
Drat! I thought it was Sunday.
Have I already had two days off?
I look at the clock.
I teach school virtually in three minutes.
“Mrs. K are you wearing your pajamas again?”
I thought it was pajama day, I lie.
I do this every week.
The kids start giving me advice.
They all want to help me.
Why do you put everything off to the last second? My husband asks.
Why don’t you go catch the mouse in my new car? I suggest
We are both the world’s biggest procrastinators.
It is good we found each other
So we do not have to drive anyone else mad
with our “last second, last minute” last chance efforts.
Our children are going to hate us when we die.
Look at all the messes they get to clean, and there are mice here.
Every day we say we are going to call an exterminator.
Every day for the last thirteen years. Have we done it? Not yet.
But we are going to….Our mantra.
'Ah Sleep' my tired body coos to the fidgety brain,
When the face of the clock says eight and twain,
The cajoling is a waste, it has the temerity to feign,
'Still at work', it prides and my body resigns in vain.
Hours go by and the cells, they twitch in pain,
At the ruthless obstinacy, and the organs, they complain,
'Why can’t he switch off, it’s well past rest time',
A war cry gathers. The body; it tries hard to contain.
The call to Morpheus, a lament so humane,
Doesn’t go unheeded, as he descends with calm disdain,
With his plush cargo of an endless dream train,
To put an end to the vagaries of the brain.
A collateral victim in this battle for supremacy,
Innocent I lost, beg for their clemency,
Morpheus and Mind don’t afford me any sympathy,
As I churn up the bed in helpless agony.
Flitting and rolling between sleep and dream,
Battered by insomnia, as it reigns supreme,
My eyes are heavy and my soul, it screams,
As I wait impatiently for dawn to begin.
My mush of a memory pillow and pajama satin,
Together they lovingly caress my hair and skin,
But even the lux of these earthly elements,
Fail to bring a cheer to my sullen sentiments.
Minus tender sleep, my head begins to spin,
Night in, night out, a fight that I can’t win,
And my liquid frame held hostage by the brain,
Walks a twisted path under the tumult and the strain.
In the dark hollows of my turbulent mind,
I see me drop the memories of my past behind,
Will I survive another endless night?
As I wait at the entrance to the portal of light.
Finally, it has come down to spirit and pills,
The unavoidable root of all my ills,
But under its influence I do sleep well,
Until the time machine pounds me with its bell.
So many blessings in my life...some come big...and some come small...
A hot mug of coffee, when morning arrives
Our big front porch...to sit and greet the sunrise
Pigeons cooing in the trees, out in the pasture scene
The mountains that surround our valley, beyond this hillside green
A happy hound, with wagging tail, who sits by my side
A friendly neighbor who waves to me, while driving by
My husband wearing an apron, while the bacon sizzles
A kiss on the back of my neck, with a gentle little nuzzle
Morning's newspaper, the comic strip and a crossword puzzle
A hot shower, that warms me from my head to my toes
A closet filled with comfy jeans, and too many clothes
A house that's big enough, even when cleaning it takes all day...
But rooms to spare, that fill up fast, when family comes to play
The music from the radio...(he likes the classics too)
The smell of sawdust, when he's busy making something new
The sound of tires on the gravel drive...when friends have just arrived
Our sons playing their guitars, my daughter's lovely singing, on the patio outside
Our kids, with caring hearts, when Dad or I could use a hand
And children laughing, doors are banging, mischief brewing
The fragrance of their shampooed hair, squeaky clean from the tub
Their sleepy, pink scrubbed cheeks, and pajama clad sweet hugs
An old weathered, leather book, filled with my mother's handwritten words
A tea set that I played with when she held me in her arms
A photo of my father, from a childhood on the farm
Oh the blessings come, some big, some small....so many that I can't name them all....
These are a few I will recall.... forever....
My grandkids have Pajama Day
From time to time in school,
So everyone wears PJ’s,
Which the kids find very cool.
I really don’t quite get it, though,
To wake up and to keep
The outfit on that you just wore
All night while fast asleep.
And even if you change into
Fresh PJ’s, I suppose
They can’t be much more comfy
Than most routine school day clothes.
When I was young, Pajama Day
Would’ve made a lot more sense,
For I can cite my skirts and tights
And shoes as evidence.
But outfits worn today by kids -
The leggings and the sweats -
Are just about as comfortable
As clothing ever gets.
Dedicated to My Son, The Bedtime Kissy-Keeper Giver
Like a virgin to stressed messes surging,
I struggled with bridges on parental ridges
when I wore both mom and work britches.
Young years adhered pleasure steered twitches
but grown changes sewed pressure stitches.
I changed to a day and night striving
female getter-doner; an energizer twit-nit
who conquered to-do lists into done bits.
I became every weekday employee,
pay postured towards green seen garnered.
I was more a get-byer than I was a
future green funds keen accumulator.
Nightly, I morphed into dinner’s meal cooker
still dressed in work time's pantyhose stress.
I dreamed of a pajama seamed frame
before next becoming a kitchen mess cleaner,
homework tutor, tub time clean scrubber and
loving night-nighttime book reader.
I found no awakes take was sweeter
than my child’s beddy-bye kissy keepers
and prayed my son’s most precious styled love
would counter the stresses that I was made of.
We are wearing pajamas today.
We are super heroes, butterflies, unicorns, and mice.
We have slippers with long rat tails.
Mine are gorillas with red light-up eyes.
One or two have tails.
My zebra suit has lost his tail.
Pulled off long ago,
But do not worry. I am wearing matching underwear.
It is pajama day! Pajama day! Pajama Day!
I sing loudly and proudly, showing off my P.J.s
In throes of ecstasy.
The principal comes to a screeching halt when she sees me.
This was supposed to be for kids.
Yes, I know, I tell her.
Kids like me!
She smiles, and I know all is exactly as it should be.
the first time the doctor said to me you're going to be a mom
the first time I felt my child stir in my womb
the first time I looked at her when they placed her on my stomach
the first time she smiled at me and I knew it was not gas
her first tooth, her first step
the first time she said "Mama"
her first sleep over and I called every hour to see if she wanted to come home
her first pajama party and she would not allow me in the room
her first crush, her first heartbreak and we talked about boys over ice cream
her first menstrual cycle and I gave her that talk about the birds and the bees
the time we went shopping for her first bra
and she chose the one with the little pink bow on the front just like I did
her first car date and I had more information on that boy than the FBI
her first prom and I took so many pictures
that my husband snatched the camera out of my hands
the first night she was gone away to college and I cried and worried all night
until she called me in the morning and told me how great everything was
the first time she told me she was seriously in love and asked for my sage advice
the first time I meet the young man, who I thought was taking away my baby
and found out he was perfect for her
the first time she told me she was getting married and she showed me the
engagement ring and we both jumped up and down with glee
the first time I saw her in her wedding gown
and I couldn't speak over the lump in my throat
the first time she told me she was pregnant
and she was so scared and excited at the same time
the first time she placed my granddaughter in my arms
she looked at me, kissed my cheek and said "Mommy I love you
and I pray that I will be as great a mom to my child as you were to me"
the first time I realized that this vibrant, intelligent young woman
is the essence of me, a legacy that will continue on in my grandchild
the first time I said, "Thank you God, we did good".
Carefree in leisure time, one blasé tourist,
almost happy, I once had collected a complicated stone;
after the sunny hours had ended and last opportunity
for keepsakes began.
In my hand the stone had kept all of its mouths sewn shut,
holding its amalgamated story, and likewise in the car,
on the plane, through US Customs where it was not
in the least suspected.
A thumbnail identity I now should guess at, marking an old date,
and fixing it to, with reasonable estimate, a map location:
Plot No. 243, East end of the island, slave sugar plantation,
the stone from the corner of a ruined windmill stair—
broken free by my criminal hand, having liberated a vine.
The stone looked like a bleached out mini-monolith, square-rectangular,
able to be stood on end, leaning back and swollen at its center
like a pulled cork.
What could have moved this sequestered world to opening?
That was not for me to discover, except what came on Christmas Day,
two days after my returning.
Slave watercourses, the sight of innumerable Dutch ships,
ballasted with human flesh and hewn rock for sugar works buildings.
The drop at arms swish of the Driver’s bullwhip.
Flecks of spirit splayed on vegetation.
A mongrel dog barked beyond the windless wall of sugarcane
in centipede and mosquito heat.
Seaside, beautiful seaside impressions;
distant coral light shadows, etched deep azure;
snowy colored breakers that pencil-marked the sea.
The staid, vibrant, mocking power
of visual symphony backdrop.
So little of aid for the slaves, but for those dangerous secrets,
unhoused in the fallen coolness of the night:
demonstratively crystalline heaven of stars;
a ragged moon, clouds scudding eastward toward Africa
before freshwater rainsqualls came. And there
Orion’s Belt, mid-sky, illustrious bright, with its three
centering star points in rational line, as if
Hope could have flung such a rope anchor onto Life
engendering sanctified resistance.
Christmas morning, 5 a.m.
I had awakened from a stuck place, shapeless and dark,
half in dreaming and half in knowing I was in no dream.
I was sobbing, yet strangely, because there were no tears.
I had only put the stone inside my pajama top onto my heart.
Electriconic connection
On a melting world
And my pain has completely lost her voice
Pajamas up since seven on the sofa now eleven
Where in abundance we can shiver the leaves and have our heads shake things out
Quarreling lovers are burrowing mothers are sorrowful daughters all terrible fathers we are
Pajama thirty now on the eleven-spot now “Zap-2-it” on-screen
I say all this because I love you and me though it's only because you love me that I love me
and know what love means
Can I paint broader strokes stepping out of the window of the house I am painting? Paint,
paint the colors of the paint?
Where were you when you were born: in a house or in a womb? On your mother or on the
ground?
Prefaces like precipices make modern living monolithic and rained on. Like how the flowers
need it.
I’m standing behind you now with your permission.
Hanging bow hanging bow
Bow bow bow
Hang bow hang
Let the rain wash the soiling regret
Make blood fill the veins of our roots
Blooming bloom blooming
Blooming asunder